Dragon Effect - The Shepard Chronicles
by J. Moonwood
Summary: Dragon Age/Mass Effect Crossover about the species of Mass Effect and Shepard and various members of his team living in the Dragon Age universe. Lots of fun stuff is going to happen to Shepard, and he's going to play a different role in this world than he did in Mass Effect, but he'll have basically the same personality with more depth in certain areas. Cover art by Andrew Ryan.
1. Chapter 1

**The Bad Start of Every Adventure Story**

A ramshackle inn in the middle of nowhere, that was where he ended up. A dispatch from the Ferelden King in his haversack, awaiting its overdue delivery, weighed heavily on his conscience. If that missive did not reach the envoy from Nevarra, it would mean an abysmal decline in relations betwixt the two nations, and that was the last thing Ferelden needed right now. Looking at the mismatched woodwork comprising the walls of the dilapidated refuge with gaps here and there, some large enough to fit your fist through, he wondered if sheltering within would be any better than the drenching downpour outside. Sighing in resignation, he lowered his gaze and walked through the poorly hung, rope-hinge door of The Drowning Fish, where his troubles were about to go from bad to worse.

John Shepard, a Lieutenant Marshal in the Ferelden Military, had proven his exemplary skill and stalwart resilience as a soldier during the Scourge of Gwaren, where darkspawn had broken through a centuries-old volus tunnel near the Arling and besieged the seaside city. His company had happened to be stationed there during routine duty circulation and played a key role in thwarting the spawn incursion. The losses were grievous for the surrounding fiefs and hamlets outside of Gwaren's walls, but thanks to tactful coordination and the courageous hearts of the Knights of Gwaren and the Red Dragons (as Shepard's unit had taken to calling itself) the city's walls remained intact and the people within unharmed. Early in the fighting, the commanding officer of the Dragons had taken an unlucky bolt to the neck amidst the walls and bled out in an infirmary soon after, which landed command of the unit in Shepard's hands. He had up to that point been a Lance Corporal in the Dragons, one of about four in the squad of some fifty men; however he was considered first amongst his equals of rank, and he proved it during the fighting. Making a gutsy play to sally forth during an ogre assault to prevent the main gate from being breached earned them a solid victory and Shepard gained a reputation as a superior commander, which wound up landing him control of the Red Dragons with a promotion to Corporal.

Further demonstration of his expectation-exceeding expertise and tactfulness saw him rise through the ranks up to Lieutenant Marshal of The Hinterlands, where he served in several campaigns against the Chasind uprisings that cropped up between the years 9:21 to 9:24. After the final desperate attempt to raid Ferelden lands was quelled in the winter of 9:24, Shepard was relieved of command of the Red Dragons in lieu of the next Corporal's promotion, and handed the task of courier to the nation of Nevarra to foster an alliance between the two nations in case Orlais decided to attempt to retake Ferelden.


	2. Chapter 2

The Bad Start of Every Adventure Story Pt:II

Within the ramshackle hut a handful of candles burned dimly, illuminating grizzled faces bearing scars and hard times observing the newcomer warily, sensing danger just in the arrival. The smell of musty wood from the wet of the downpour permeated the place. Dull oaken beams and planks of pine made up the floors and walls, and the hint of stale beer wafted into his nose. At least he was out of the cold.

After wiping the rain from his eyes Shepard took in the scene before him, three round tables sat cramped together with far too many chairs to fit comfortably at each, most of which were filled with somber patrons. One table was filled with men wearing nothing more than threadbare rags with rope-belts, either farmers or serfs. The other table sported three stocky men with wiry muscles and garbed in dark studded leather and bandannas. Mercenaries. The smell of musty wood from the wet of the downpour permeated the place. Dull oaken beams and planks of pine made up the floors and walls, and the hint of stale beer wafted into his nose.

Eyeing them closer as he approached the bar not five feet from the table where they sat, Shepard noted a greataxe propped up in the corner. If they had any other weapons they were concealed, which mattered little to him. He turned his attention from their cold stares to the innkeep who happened to be a rather young man with wildly unkempt hair and black stubble along his face and neck. He was standing tensely since Shepard had walked through the door, probably worried to death that this newcomer would bring trouble with him.

"Evenin'," he said loudly as he grabbed a mug to clean nervously, shooting a glance at the tables behind Shepard. With brow furrowing, the Lieutenant Marshal looked hard at the boy behind the counter, couldn't be more than twenty years old.

"Evening," he replied with a shout in order to overcome the cacophony of the storm pelting the rundown shingles on the roof. "You got any rooms for the night, or at least to wait out the storm?"

The innkeep shook his head in reply, "Jus' the floor under yer feet. Weren't meant to have no rooms when they built this place, save the one behind the bar for me family, or rather jus' meself now I s'pose. Yer more'n welcome to sit out this storm or take the floor 'til mornin', ain't got much else ta offer ye, save maybe a little ale."

"I'll have an ale then," he affirmed with four coppers slapped on the aged oak of the bar. With a nod, the innkeeper turned around to pull a clay jug from the shelf and empty golden water into a wooden pint, to then set at Shepard's awaiting fingers. Taking a long swig, Shepard tried to enjoy the brief respite of pleasure from his already wearying journey, it had been raining since he left Denerim, and but a few days from Jader, the westernmost Ferelden port on the Waking Sea's coast, he was beginning to feel drained from slogging through rainy mud for the last three weeks. He would have been faring far better had his horse not broken its leg slipping into a hidden mud hole. That misfortune occurred not three days after his departure, leaving him stranded on foot along the Northern Imperial Highway with no chance for another horse until he reached Jader, which would no longer matter anyway since he couldn't take a horse across the sea in the small ferries that ran from Jader to Cumberland in Nevarra.

With a sigh, Shepard moved over to the mostly empty table next to the bar and took a seat. The lone, sorrowed-looking old man that had been eating a miserable bowl of gruel grabbed his supper and stood up to go lean against the wall by the table full of peasants to finish his meal. Taking no offense on the account that Shepard was dressed in red-stained reinforced leather with a Highever-forged broadsword and shield on his back, Shepard supped on his ale as he watched the other patrons of the bar. The rain continued to beat down on the overburdened shack while the bar within was quiet, everyone had stopped talking since Shepard arrived.

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye after taking the last swallow of ale, the would-be mercenaries stood up all at once, all looking at him with sure faces and confident stance. Shepard raised an eyebrow with a threatening squint of his eyes, but the three men were undeterred. The one in the middle who had been sitting farthest away from him let out a chuckle, "You're the messenger from the King am I right? Good fortune smiles on us that you stumbled in here on your way out of the country. Otherwise one of the other groups would've gotten the pay." He looked closer at them now. All bearing tattoos of a red skull with a pair of oars crossed beneath on their shoulders or necks. "And here we were thinking we had gotten the worst posting to look for your sorry ass in this wilderness, good thing we were wrong. The Crimson Oars have you now, so you can choose to surrender quietly or we bloody this tavern up with your insides," he accentuated his statement by pulling the greataxe up out of the corner as his two companions drew longswords from their sheaths.

"You sure you want to do that?" Shepard's voice was cold. "I've fought plenty of Crimson Oars in my time in the Red Dragons, several ships are sailing the seas today because you sorry pirates don't know how to fight." The middle man scoffed.

"Think we're scared of a grunt, eh? We'll gut you faster than you can stand up." At that the other mercenaries yelled "Crimson Oars!" as they rushed at Shepard. Faster than they could react, Shepard had the table he was sitting at flipped up in their faces. Batting it aside, they leapt at their prey now standing armed with his sword and shield, screaming battle cries. The first one swung his longsword high and Shepard raised his shield to push it up and out of the way and then brought his broadsword swiping from the side to chop halfway through the pirate's chest. The man's eyes bulged as he toppled to the ground. Shepard's sword came swinging out of the first man's abdomen to parry the next sword coming down from above. He caught the blade with the crossguard and waved it down and away from his body to pin it to the floor with his sword. The mercenary grunted angrily and tried grabbing at Shepard to free his weapon, but Shepard slammed his shield against the grasping hand, breaking fingers and pushing it away. Shepard fed him his shield again for good measure and it connected solidly with his face, making a wet crunching sound and sending the second man to the floor, out cold.

The last warrior screamed with rage and sent his greataxe at his enemy from his swordside, removing his ability to block with his shield. Shepard had to quickstep backwards and bend his chest away from the great sweep of the deadly axe head. He quickly noted that the peasants who had been sitting at the table were across the inn by the door, pressed flat up against the wall with fear. Before the mercenary could recover and swing again, Shepard locked his shield in front of him and barreled into his foe, slamming him over the table behind him, which rocked off balance and sent him to the floor in a painfull, headfirst fall. The ceiling swam around his head and he tried to feel for his axe, but his opponent stood fast over him holding the point of his sword across his neck. "Surrender," he said easily. He wasn't even out of breath. The mark of a man who was used to being in long fights that he probably didn't even expect to win with odds so stacked against him that there wasn't even means to measure it. He was calm, unafraid of harm or even death. With sword pressed hard to his throat, he snarled and made a wild grab for his axe, and then he couldn't breathe. Warm liquid rolled off his neck and he felt a line of cold on his throat. His eyes sunk behind their covers and darkness swallowed him up.

Shepard looked around the tavern wearily, the farmers and serfs staring with mouths agape at him, the barkeep gave him an unexpected nod considering he just decorated his tavern in red. "On the King's business are ye?" he asked the Lieutenant. He nodded silently in reply. "I'll see about settin' ye up for the night if ya still want, this storm's not about to let up anytime soon. Le's clean up this mess first, then we'll talk." It was going to be a long night it seemed.


	3. Chapter 3

Cold floor, cold fire

As the meager embers in the fireplace lay dying, Shepard and the innkeeper sat beside the glowing logs sipping ale trying to soak up the last bit of warmth from the flames. The squall outside had died down to a light drizzle and the soft patters on the thatch roof echoed serenely down to the ears of the patrons below. The smoke of the damp firewood burning lazily wafted through the whole place and smelled of maple. A dozen tallow candles melted down to stumps flickered desperately to keep from dying out. The innkeeper stared blearily at Shepard, eyes irritated by the thick smoke which could not bleed through the narrow chimney quickly enough and billowed over into the main room of the inn.

"The name's Kenley by the way," the young man said after taking a long sip of his mug. "Kenley Farris. Me folks came to Ferelden when I was still a babe, a'fore that me kin hailed from Nevarra." He looked around at the haggard state of his establishment and sighed, almost contentedly it seemed. "An' now that me folks're gone, this run down shack in the woods is all I have left to remember 'em by."

Shepard nodded silently at Kenley as he took a long sip of the warm ale, letting the gentle burn linger in his mouth before swallowing, fully letting the taste seep in to his palate. The drink did it's best to warm him up since he had taken his armor off. He had removed it earlier to move more freely when he and Kenley had carried the bodies of the dead mercenaries out of the bar and buried them. "So have you ever been back to Nevarra?" he asked the weary-looking innkeep.

"Nah, I never had cause ta go. Nothing left for me there and barely anything keeping me 'ere, but I've never had cause t'be anywhere else so this is where I'll be, 'til this damned shanty falls down 'round me ears." Kenley's somber look spoke volumes at just how dissatisfied he was with his lot in life. It was hard to make a living in the world these days, particularly in Ferelden. It was still just a babe of a country after winning its independence from Orlais but a few decades ago, whereas before the Orlesian occupation Ferelden had been nothing more than a conglomeration of various tribes fighting against eachother for plots of land, caring nothing for the greater nations beyond their borders.

"I can tell ye this though," his mood changed suddenly, from somber to serious and focused, as though he regarded the information he was about to share as little-known and valuable. "Nevarra was once the most respected nation in Thedas. No country could boast o' its pride and prowess more so than she could. A country o' dragon slayers and heroes, naught but two ages ago when dragons could still be found aplenty and they needed slayin' as they made a nasty habit o' terrorizin' the people, Nevarra became famous because her warriors found a way ta kill them dragons wi'out gettin' burned ta ashes in the process." Pausing his speech to take the last draught of his mug, Kenley sighed contentedly and continued on.

"Those warriors and knights trained others on how ta fight and soon their ranks swelled enough that they became a company of dragon slayers, travellin' Thedas slayin' dragons for coin and glory. Eventually it got ta the point that they could find no more dragons across the reaches o' the world, and the years rolled on by without so much as a sighting of a single one o' the beasties. Years passed and the dragon slayers found themselves poor and all but forgotten." Shepard nodded every few words, already knowing that much about Nevarra. Kenley shifted in his chair and scooted a little closer to the fire and stoked the orange embers, trying to squeeze the last bit of fuel from their crumbling forms.

"So as the years went by and the dragon slayers found that they were out o' work, they had no choice but ta take their skills where they'd be best served, the military. Most o' the company o' dragon slayers had no choice but ta enlist in the Nevarran militia after they spent the last bit o' their coin from their glory days, and did it ever frighten the pants off o' the other nations once they realized that Nevarra had men and women who killed dragons for a living serving in the regular army. Needless ta say, nobody wanted ta mess with Nevarra for a good long while after that occurred and the country knew peace for decades. But that was two ages ago, and all o' them that once slew dragons 'ave been in the dirt for a long time now," upon saying that Kenley looked over to the fireplace where the embers were now a cold grey and no longer gave off any warmth at all.

Curling his upper lip in dissatisfaction, the innkeep rose up from his chair and tried futilely to rekindle the fire, alas to no avail. Slapping the poker down on the brickwork of the fireplace he grumbled and shuffled off to the back room of the inn rubbing his arms to ward off the cold. He returned a few minutes later with a bedroll and some bedding for Shepard to sleep on. Most of the other patrons had bedded down for the night already as near to the fire as they could be and had been snoring cacophonously during Kenley's tale. The innkeep handed over the blankets and the Lieutenant accepted them graciously, already feeling the wet cold outside creeping in.

"See to it that when you go to Nevarra that you have a healthy respect for the warriors there," Kenley began. "The dragon slayers may all be dead but they passed on their training ta the ones beneath them in the military afore they died. Even some of the mercenaries you might meet on the streets or in the taverns there are likely to 'ave some o' that training too, so mind yerself while yer there." Shepard nodded his understanding and set his bedroll down on the cold wooden floor near the others and bedded down for the night, knowing he would have to get an early start at dawn to reach Jader by the time the ship sailed.


	4. Chapter 4

Wear your hood low

Shepard awoke the next morning with a crick in his back. He guessed while he was sleeping on his side, a nearby slumbering farmer kicked out in his sleep and caught the small of the poor Lieutenant's back with his boot. Standing up stiffly and bending forward to try and stretch the knots out of his muscles, Shepard let out a labored yawn and proceeded with gathering his things for departure from the ramshackle little inn out in the Ferelden wilderness near the border. Jader was less than two days away, and after he crossed over the Ferelden border into Orlais he knew he would have to be on guard and take the most precious care not to be detained by the Orlesians, lest they discover his mission and the missive he carried.

What a spectacle that would be, he thought, for the Emissary of the King of Ferelden carrying a parley of alliance against the Orlesian Empire to be caught by the very people his country was making an enemy of. Various methods of torture began spinning through his head, all the famous ones of course, best known for getting whatever information to be had in the most efficient manner. Shaking his head to banish the thoughts from his mind, Shepard threw his knapsack over his shoulder and stepped out of the dilapidated tavern back into the damp wet of the Ferelden Highlands. The sound of the morningbirds singing in the trees was accompanied by the scent of soaked greenery, and the sun was just beginning to peek over the tops of the clustered tall pines to the North, which reminded him of the direction of his western destination.

Double-checking the buckles on his armor to ensure a snug fit, Shepard slogged off through the wet earth on his way to the northern hills of Orzammar, where the Imperial Highway would meet up with him again after snaking its way south down along the shores of Lake Calenhad. He yearned to be able to use its paved walls to travel easily over the highlands on his way to Jader, but the nagging reminder that the chances of running into trouble, whether from banditry or more of those mercenaries, would steeply increase if he traveled the major roads. With a resigned frown, Shepard trudged on towards the Fereldan border.

Most of the day passed without incident and the night was cold, but the clouds were merciful and held back the rain though they swelled darkly with it, so he camped gratefully beneath a copse of thick trees with a bedroll by the fire. The following day, he passed into the northern hills and traveled along one of the wagon-paths used by the Volus merchants travelling back and forth from Orzammar. The particular road he found himself on was well north of the Imperial Highway, which guaranteed him some measure of anonymity, but to no great surprise, he came across a caravan of Volus traders headed back to Orzammar. The strange creatures fascinated him somewhat, as they wore full suits of leather and metal, with tubes running from their helmets to leather packs on their back. He heard it was because the Volus had been living underground among lyrium for so long that they could not survive without breathing in the stuff, so their packs had bits of lyrium dust in them to breathe in through the tubes running up to their helms.

The group he came across was quite flustered and several of the things were huddled around a cracked wagon wheel while one or two others slowly paced back and forth rambling on about all the bad luck and the uselessness of their traveling companions while throwing their hands up in the air in frustration. As he passed by they stopped their squabbling long enough to acknowledge his existence and he returned their curious stares with a friendly wave. One of the Volus who had been pacing around the rest of his companions returned the wave awkwardly as if it were doing so for the first time, somewhat understanding the gesture but not having a clue of how to go about giving it. Shepard would have liked to stop and offer them his aid but he knew he had a schedule to keep and really disliked the idea of spending a night out in the wilds of Orlesian territory, so he kept marching on his way.

Late into the afternoon as the sun was painting the southern horizon a burnt orange, Shepard crested a ridge overlooking the Orlesian port-city of Jader. He had made it safely thus far without encountering anymore mercenaries, hopefully the rest of them were still looking for him in Ferelden and wouldn't figure he'd already moved across the border and into Orlais. Gazing upon the city in the wilting light was a beautiful sight. The rooftops and towers all glowed a brilliant yellow in the dusk-light, making the whole city appear as though it were aflame. The sandstone of the structures caught the sunlight and bounced it back in its own vivid hue, and here and there all manner of woven cloth and patterned linen stretched out over archways or merchant stalls adding a myriad of dazzling colors in amongst the glow. The smell of salt blew up from the Waking Sea into Shepard's face and he could hear the distant call of gulls crying as they hovered over the wharfs and piers of the docks district down at the seaside.

The walls around the city, though high, were thinly built and the city was outgrowing them by leaps and bounds, already whole neighborhoods were situated outside the western gate, and the Lieutenant figured that would be his best bet for getting into the city unharassed. If he had to explain his business to any Orlesians, he was a mercenary from Brandel's Reach off the coast of Ferelden looking to board a ship to find work up in Nevarra. Adjusting the pack on his back, Shepard moved down the ridge and made his way to the western gate of the city. As he neared the first few houses on the edge of town he tried to relax his stance and appear casual and weary from the road, which wasn't hard considering his feelings were genuine. Coming up upon the gatehouse he noted a pair of guards dressed in full plate one on each side of the open portcullis snoozing against their pikes. Easier than he thought.

He waltzed into the city as though he were a citizen himself and made his way down to a tavern in the docks district where he was to meet his contact which would secure him passage into Nevarra without it being discovered that he was a member of the Fereldan military. Walking through the crowded streets his ears were assaulted by cacophonous boasts of merchants peddling their wares and street side auctions taking place. Throngs of craftsmen and commoners alike packed tightly into the winding streets like bundles of wheat in a barn. It took some work and forceful pushing, but Shepard was able to squeeze through the crowds and get into the docks district where there were much fewer people out and about. A few sailors here and there either moving cargo or heading to a tavern were the main occupants of the wharfs, the smell of salt intensified down here, and he could now smell clearly the rank odor of fish drying out in the sun and various other smells which he could not sort through. Gulls squawked and pecked at scraps left on the planks near the ships and Shepard finally set his eyes on the tavern he was supposed to find his contact in.

A sign reading "The Scarlet Lady" and bearing the rendition of a fair maiden wearing a long red dress while blushing hung over the door of a two-story building perched atop one of the bigger wharfs. It was well built and sported all the designs of Orlesian architecture and Shepard could hear the sounds of cheering drunks and laughter echoing from within. Loosening the straps on his pack, he opened the thick wooden door and stepped into the wafting pipe smoke eking out of the tavern.

Letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer atmosphere of wall-hung lanterns and the modest flames in the fireplace, Shepard looked around at the melting pot of patrons. Sailors wearing all sorts of colors were speckled throughout the place, swinging mugs in their hands and singing most unskillfully in hodge-podge unison. There were some Krogan grouped up at a couple of tables in one of the corners, arm-wrestling other patrons and comparing scars. A pair of Salarians were gossiping near the bar and Shepard even saw a Turian or two fade in and out amongst the crowd as patrons dithered about and moved from bar to table. Having no idea where his contact was or if he was even in the tavern yet, Shepard moved to an empty seat at the bar and ordered an ale. No sooner did the barkeep set the mug down in front of Shepard than he felt a hand slap him on the back. His head whipped around with a start and staring back at him was a black-haired fellow in a fine blue robe. The stranger offered him a reassuring smile and sat down at the empty seat next to him, waving for the man behind the bar to bring another mug.

Shepard raised an eyebrow at the newcomer, "And you are?"

Taking a swig from his mug and wiping his mouth on the hem of his sleeve, the stranger glanced back at the wary Lieutenant.

"You're Shepard right?"

"Maybe, who's asking?" he replied reservedly.

Taking another sip from his mug, the man placed a friendly hand on Shepard's shoulder, "I'm your contact here, the man who's going to accompany you to Nevarra."

"And your name is?" Shepard was still unsure whether to be on his guard or feel relieved. The stranger gave him a reassuring smile.

"Kaidan. Kaidan Alenko."


End file.
